


Form and Fuse

by wilma_de_worde



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But fair warning if that's a trigger of yours, Demisexuality, Ficlet, Grey-A Sherlock, I do not know what happened, I want to give John a hug, It is possible for me to write non-Parentlock fics, John Darnielle what have you done to me, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, One Shot, Sherlock's Perspective, Stand Alone, Stream of Consciousness, This started out sweet, kind of, not really - Freeform, songfic sort of, who knew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilma_de_worde/pseuds/wilma_de_worde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't know how to explain it, so he won't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Form and Fuse

**Author's Note:**

> I started out writing something sweet and sexy, partially to sort out some kind of confusing feelings I had from last week. Then I accidentally listened to 'Collapsing Stars' on repeat all weekend and this is what happened. I have no further explanation.
> 
> I added a few more tags after a wonderful, heart-felt review by [beautifullyheeled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled). I never knew there was a word to describe this feeling and, honestly, I didn't know anyone else ever had feelings like these. My eyes were truly opened by her comment and, while it might not be much at all, I thought adding the terms she gave me to the tags might help someone else, too.

He doesn’t know how to explain it. He hates not knowing how to explain things. But it isn’t about sex; not really. It _is_ , of course, in its own way. John wants sex, and he never wants John to want for anything. He’s always game even when he isn’t. But sometimes on some nights, nights such as this one, he doesn’t really want _sex_.

He just wants John.

Warm-soft-rigid John, John-angles and curves fitting seamlessly against his own valleys and cracks, filling him up, erasing the scars. His nostrils brimming with musk and cedar and Afghan sun, skin burning with the heat of him, ears ringing with grunts and reverent curses and _god yes Sherlock love_. The racing of his mind, the endless observations-- _bedside lamp forty-watt bulb will burn out in approximately seventy-nine days; six hundred thread count Egyptian cotton bed sheets have not been changed in thirty-five days; Mrs Hudson baking currant scones using sucralose-based sweetener Mrs Turner’s diabetes out of control once again_ \--muzzled and soothed to a dull buzz, then nothing.

He never knew nothing could feel so good.

But most of all, it is the antithesis of emptiness. He isn’t full; full is a poor synonym. If this is ‘full’, then the ocean is ‘deep’ and he is merely ‘intelligent’. Small words have no place Here. Here is-- _brimming, abounding, glutted_ \--imperforate. Plenary. Absolute. Ouroboros and salvation and _home_.

It isn’t about sex.

He could find sex anywhere if sex was what he wanted. He’s self-aware enough to know he is objectively attractive or, at the very least, unique enough in countenance to garner an inexplicable appeal among certain groups. He can flirt and charm and seduce if he so desires, but he doesn’t. There would be no true pleasure in that. There would be no trust. Why sully the transport for a brief moment of carnal dalliance? He’s never wanted that before, and now, he knows, he never will. This is better. _John_ is better. The answer to a question he had never bothered to ask.

He never resists and he never complains. He simply allows his legs to part, his hips to rise, the hot intrusion and dull ache to pour into his every crevice, barometric pressure constricting his chest, veins, arteries, his heart racing as his reptilian hindbrain begs him to flee. He never will. Wraps his arms and legs tight around John’s small torso, face pressing into John’s flushed throat, voice throaty and low as he slurs _yes yes please don’t John_ , the hoarse reply of _alright it’s alright I’m here I’m here I’m here_.

He never has to explain, and John no longer asks.

One tearful night--long ago, it seems, though perhaps not so long--after too many hours at the pub with Lestrade, still reeling with loss and uncertainty, he’d asked then. His face pressing sharp against Sherlock’s belly, cheeks damp, tenor breaking.

_I can’t tell if this is what you want._  
_I know._  
_We can stop--_  
_No._  
_Please, love--_  
_John._  
_I don’t want to hurt you!_  
_You won’t._

He never will.

It isn’t about the sex: it’s about John. And he can’t explain it, so he won’t. Not even to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you unfamiliar, here is a link to the song. The Mountain Goats are so good they must be fattening and I can apply way too many of their songs to JohnLock.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R3bR_lOyBe0


End file.
